The Crimson Roses
by ladyofbooks
Summary: (Post Season 3. Spoilers for HLV.) "Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator." It's been two months after Moriarty's message, and Sherlock is going mad with frustration over the fact that nothing strange has happened. Then, he gets a client with a very odd problem, and he drags John along to solve the case. Will they solve it? My first Fic, hope you enjoy!
1. Chapter 1: Mary's Gift

**_The Crimson Roses_**

_(Sherlock Fan-Fic, post series 3, minor spoilers for the end of HLV)_

_Disclamer: I (unfortunately) do not own Sherlock or the characters. I only own my OC, who appears in the next chapter.  
_

Chapter 1

_Mary's Gift_

"AHHHHH!" Sherlock cried out in frustration. John, startled, looked up, just in time to see Sherlock smack his forehead on the laptop keyboard. "What's wrong?" he inquired, worriedly.

"Nothing! Nearly two months after that message, and still nothing is out of the ordinary! What's Moriarty trying to do, make me kill myself with frustration?!" Sherlock yelled.

"For God's sake, calm down!"

"I can't!" Sherlock growled trough gritted teeth.

"Yes, you can, and you bloody well will! If I have to hear the neighbors complain one more time, I will make sure you are kept permanently sedated. Or have them send you out of the country for good!" John yelled, smacking his hand on the armchair.

"Stop making empty threats, John. You know as well as I do that there are no sedatives in the house, and Mycroft is keeping me in the country until I solve the Moriarty business, and I imagine I can probably re-negotiate my exile after that. Plus, you should probably be more worried about the fact that it is Valentine's Day tomorrow, and you haven't got Mary a gift yet." Sherlock said, calming down.

"Shit, you're right." John said, his anger turning back to worry in an instant. Sherlock was good at that, controlling the moods of other people. Sometimes John thought that the whole world seemed to be an orchestra, with Sherlock as the conductor.

"What do you think I should get her?"

"How would I know? She's YOUR wife, and besides, I know very little about romance, as most people would quite readily confirm." Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

"Come on! You're Sherlock Holmes, the man who knows everything about everybody! Surely you must be able to 'deduct' what Mary would want as a present? I'm sure you've been noticing every movement she makes, and translating it into complex thoughts, feelings and desires. You, of all people, would know what she might want." John pleaded.

"Fine." Sherlock conceded grumpily. "She'll definitely want some chocolate, seeing as she keeps eating my supplies whenever she comes around. Obviously she is having pregnancy related cravings. She'll also want to have a night in, watching romance movies - the fact that she keeps putting romantic DVDs out on the coffee table is a fairly obvious way of showing this - and I would not advise taking her out to the cinema, seeing as she is due next week, and overexertion might send her into labor early, disrupting your evening. Satisfied?"

"Yes." said John, smiling.

"Then you had better go and buy that chocolate. Buy some for me as well. Dark chocolate would be preferable." said Sherlock, as he lay down on the sofa. "Meanwhile, I will be cleaning up my Mind Palace. Drop by with the chocolate when you're done."

"Bye, then. See you in a little while!" called John, as he hurried down the stairs. Sherlock didn't reply- he was already deep inside his Mind Palace. "Why on earth do I still have that! That certainly needs to go..."

_**A/N: Heya! Thank you for reading my little story! Reviews are welcome, and I will be immensely flattered if you choose to favorite/follow my story! Next chapter will be posted soon. See you then!**_


	2. Chapter 2: The Murder Poem

Chapter 2

The Murder Poem

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or its charaters. I only own Ruby Garcia.  
_

It was only a quarter of an hour after John had left, when suddenly there was a knock at the door of 221b Baker St. The sudden noise abruptly jolted Sherlock out of his Mind Palace. He hated it when that happened, and as a result, took longer than necessary to get off the sofa and open the door. When he did open the door, he greeted the two people on the other side with an irritated "What?".

"Client for you, Sherlock dear." Mrs Hudson said with a large smile.

"Not now Mrs Hudson, I'm busy!" whined Sherlock.

"Sherlock..."

"I'm in my pyjamas!"

Mrs Hudson looked at him sadly. Sherlock couldn't stand seeing one of his few friends sad.

"Oh, fine. Give me a second and I'll get dressed. You can come in." Here, he nodded at the young woman stood nervously next to Mrs Hudson in the doorway. "What's your name, by the way?"

"I'm Ruby Garcia." the woman said, stepping thankfully into the room, glad that the argument was over. Sherlock gave her what John liked to call 'the deduction once-over'. This was what he picked up:

_Long hair, honey coloured, recently been professionally styled, for an event of some kind, since she doesn't seem like the sort of person who would regularly style her hair (plain, unfashionable clothing)._

_String of unhappy love affairs, one resulting in engagement, which was recently terminated, evident from her ring finger having a faint mark where an engagement ring would be._

_Bookish, judging from the amount of paper cuts on her fingers._

_Several cats, variety of cat furs on her legs._

_Lives alone, (shown by the fact that she has a smudge of blue ink on her cheek, which nobody has told her about)._

_Ink shows that she writes, but not as a journalist, otherwise the ink on her cheek would be black, not blue._

_Conclusion; she lives alone, with several cats, working in writing (probably novelist) hair styled, (likely for a date, considering the time of year)._

_Great._ he thought. _Another lovesick puppy._ With a small sigh, he walked into his room to change.

...

"Miss Garcia, will you please state your case. Don't be boring, and keep it quick; I only have a limited attention span." Sherlock said, leaning forward in his armchair.

"Well, you are the great Sherlock Holmes, I'm pretty sure you must know what I want." She challenged him with her voice, and a defiant look in her eyes.

_Oooo, a feisty one._ He hadn't expected that of her, but then again, people were always unpredictable.

"Well, Miss Garcia..."

"Ruby, please. Miss Garcia makes me sound like a teacher." she interjected.

"...Ruby. From what I can deduce, you would appear to be going on a date, or a similar sort of event, judging from the fact that you have had your hair styled reasonably recently, and also the fact that it is Valentine's Day tomorrow. A date would be the most likely event for you to have styled your hair for. I can also deduce that you live alone with several cats, and that you are also a novelist. You would also appear to have had some difficulties in love prior to your date tomorrow. Therefore, I would say that you were, like as not, calling on me to help you in love-related business. Am I correct?"

Ruby raised her eyebrow. "So, you really are as good as people say."

"Did I get it right?" Sherlock asked, leaning forward in his chair like an exited puppy.

"Yes, you did, but I imagine that you'll want details."

"Of course." said Sherlock, rolling his eyes.

Ruby smiled slightly. "Okay, so, the facts are these. Yesterday, after I got back from having my hair done for my blind date tonight, I found this on my desk." Here, she handed him a delicate pink card. Written on the inside, in red ink, was the following;

_Your blood is red_

_Your veins are blue_

_I will kill all that you love_

_Unless my Valentine is you._

"Hmmm." mused Sherlock. "Who do you think could have written it?"

"That's the thing. I just don't know. The handwriting doesn't match that of any of my friends or *ahem* past lovers, so I'm completely stuck. There's more than just this, though."

"What else is there?"

"Well...look, I should probably just show you." She took out her phone and opened up a picture. It showed two cats lying dead on the floor of what Sherlock assumed was Ruby's house. Their veins had been pulled out, and blood splotches had been arranged into rose shapes. "Hmmm." Sherlock mumbled, at a loss of anything better to say. Immediately, his mind began to come up with solutions to Ruby's problem.

"So, Mr Holmes. Will you help me?" Ruby's voice broke in on his thoughts. Sherlock looked at her for a heartbeat, and then said, confidently, "Yes, of course."

At that precise moment, John walked in through the door with a carrier bag. He stopped immediately, when he saw Sherlock and Ruby. "Do we..."

Sherlock finished his sentence for him. "...have a case? Yes, my dear John, we do! Come along, we have ourselves a Valentines mystery!"

_**A/N: Hello (again)! Thanks for reading this new chapter! As before, I appreciate any feedback. Chapter 3 will be posted when I have finished writing it. See you then! ** _


	3. Chapter 3: A Vital Clue

Chapter 3

A Vital Clue

_Disclaimer: I only own Ruby._

"This is my flat." Ruby spoke quietly, breaking the silence that had surrounded the three of them. Every time John had tried to make conversation, Sherlock had told him to shut up. He had sounded more and more annoyed, until John eventually gave up, and the taxi ride descended into stony silence.

Sherlock paid the cabbie, and in just under 5 minutes, the three of them were outside Ruby's flat. She unlocked the door, and they stepped into a pleasantly untidy living room. It was small, but not cramped - the furniture was spread out in such a way that the room appeared larger than it actually was. The walls were painted a deep red; akin to the colour of blood, Sherlock thought, and he would know. All of the furniture was dark - dark wood, dark leather, and hand-stitched cushions that matched the walls. There was a vast abundance of bookcases, crammed to the teeth with books, which Sherlock had expected - Ruby was a writer, after all. There was a large walnut desk in one corner, which was piled high with papers. Sherlock decided that, if he was going to find a clue to the identity of the mysterious letter-writer, that desk would be the place to look.

He went over to it, and immediately began to rifle through the drawers. "No, no, no…Miss Garcia, where do you keep your old letters?" he asked, shoving a whole stack of papers onto the floor with a small crash.

"My name is_ Ruby, _please call me it, and I keep my old letters -well, the interesting ones anyway- in the top left drawer."

Sherlock only gave a grunt by way of thanks, and shifted his search to the drawer that he had been directed to.

"Sorry about him - he never talks when he's on a case, except to insult people, or to state the answer to a case, then go dashing off to solve the next." John said, smiling apologetically at Ruby.

"That's okay. I'm the same when I'm writing." Ruby smiled back. "Do either of you want some tea, or coffee?"

"I'll have some tea, thanks." John sat down on Ruby's sofa, and watched Sherlock continue to rifle through papers. It had only been a minute before he gave a great shout of delight, causing Ruby to drop the tea as she came in the room. It hit the floor with a crash, and she swore loudly. John, ever the gentleman, ran to help.

"Sherlock, you moron, next time try to contain your excitement! You've made Ruby break her mug!" John growled.

"Never mind that, I've found it!"

"Found what?" Ruby asked, curiously.

"A clue!" Sherlock looked delirious with excitement. John and Ruby both looked slightly mystified, so he gestured the both of them over to the sheet of paper in his hands.

"Look here. It's written in the same handwriting as the letter. " The paper he held in his hands was perfectly ordinary. It had only two words upon it, written in pencil:

_The restaurant._

"What does it mean?" inquired John. Ruby had gone very white. She let out a small, barely audible moan. "Oh, god. He -oh god- he…"

"…Is going to be at your date tonight." Sherlock finished, "Which gives us ample opportunity to catch him in the act!" He had a wild gleam in his eyes, and he looked far too exited. Ruby was on the verge of fainting. John gently help her over too the sofa. "Don't worry, it'll be fine." he said softly.

"Yes, it will. Ruby, I will text you some instructions for the evening." Sherlock said, flicking up his shirt collar. "Meanwhile, John, I need you to try on some of Mary's dresses…"

"WHAT?!"

_**A/N: Hello again my wonderful readers! Just a short one this time. I am writing Chapter 4 at present, and will upload when I'm done. Please, Please review/follow/favorite, and I will see you next time! Bye!**_


	4. Chapter 4: The Crimson Rose Restaurant

Chapter 4

The Crimson Rose Bar and Restaurant

_**A/N: Be warned. Here be cross-dressing. If that disturbs you, don't read this chapter. Enjoy, my readers.**_

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock; I only own my OC's, and this location (which if it does exist, would surprise me)._

John tugged down the front of the black dress he was wearing. "I can't believe you made me do this."

"Well, it couldn't be me, could it?" Sherlock sighed.

"Why can't it be you?"

"Because, John, in a typical heterosexual relationship, the female is always shorter than the male."

"That's just stereotyping. Mary and I are about the same height."

"Which is precisely why you have to wear the dress."

The two of them were walking to The Crimson Rose Bar and Restaurant, the place where Ruby was meeting her blind date. John was wearing a floor length black dress, a long, blonde wig, makeup, a white coat, and high heels. All of them belonged to Mary (except the wig). The dress had been padded out at the top, to give the illusion of breasts. In all honesty, it was a comical sight. Sherlock wished he had a camera – he would have taken a photograph for prosperity.

"Now remember, you can't talk, or it'll give you away. Just _try _to look elegant, and somewhat feminine." Sherlock ordered.

John laughed incredulously. "Feminine? Me? Not a bloody chance, Sherlock."

"Well, try at least. Now, shush. We're almost there."

"Remind me again, why am I dressed like a woman?" John asked, even though he already knew – he just wanted to be reminded that this wasn't just for Sherlock's pleasure (even though, he guessed, this was probably part of the reason why).

"John, I've already told you," Sherlock said, impatiently "that you are dressed like this because it will provide us with a cover, and it will also make us less likely to be recognized. People will be looking for two men, not a man and a woman. Now, shut up. We're there."

The front of The Crimson Rose Bar and Restaurant loomed up before them. It was a large, Victorian-esque building, and it carried an imposing air of grandeur. It looked like the sort of restaurant you would expect to see rich heiresses and their beau's dining in, eating tiny portions of caviar or some similarly expensive and disgusting food.

"Sir, Madam. Do you have a reservation?" A waiter with an obnoxiously French accent came up to them.

"Yes, under Holmes, for 6:00pm." Sherlock's voice had sharpened to the hardness of an uncut diamond. He looked more posh, more authoritative, and an awful lot like Mycroft, though not, John thought, in an unpleasant way. John realized that he should try to look more ladylike. He tried to stand in a less regimented stance. It sort of worked, but he still looked a bit odd. The waiter scurried back with two menus, and gestured them over to a table by the right of the room. It was directly next to a table on which Ruby sat. She looked slightly nervous, but beautiful too, in a dress the colour of periwinkles. It matched her eyes, and made her honey coloured hair shine. She smiled at the two of them and John smiled back. Ruby did a double take. "John?" she asked, incredulous.

"For covert purposes, I'm going by Joan." John whispered, with a rogueish wink. Ruby giggled. The three of them settled down at their separate tables. Almost as soon as they had sat down, a young man walked in, dressed up in a suit. Sherlock began to deduce him. He couldn't help himself.

_Early 20's, rich, playboy, only on a date because his mother wanted him to meet a woman so that she could give him grandchildren, but he can't because he has a history of erectile dysfunction, not interested in dating, only wants to live off parent's money._

"Oh joy." He muttered under his breath. John looked at him. "What…oh no, you've deduced something awful."

"Yes, and that man should not be dating Ruby Garcia." He mumbled.

"Since when did you care about Ruby? She's a client, you don't care about clients, not really." John whispered. Sherlock just glared at him.

"Hush, or your growling will blow our cover." He whispered, annoyed.

"I do not _growl_, Sherlock."

"Yes, you do."

Ruby's date was already going disastrously, and it had only been 20 minutes. Her date (a man called Eugene, believe it or not) had just sat and talked at her, and it had all gone over her head. He was really just a lazy, pretentious arsehole, and she would have ended the date by now, if not for the fact that she knew Sherlock needed to catch the letter-writer. They were currently eating (a plate of some unidentifiable, madly expensive mush for Eugene, and a lovely seafood platter for herself). Eugene was taking again (something about golf? She wasn't sure.). _Oh, when will this end?!_ she thought to herself. _I'm dying here._ After another god-awful 10 minutes later, Eugene got up, saying he needed the toilet. After a few seconds, when she was sure he was out of earshot, she leaned over towards John and Sherlock's table. "This is the worst date I've ever been on. Ever. And trust me, I've been on a lot of bad dates. I hope," she added, looking towards Sherlock, "that you work out who my letter-writer is soon, or I might just die of boredom."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but was cut of by a scream from the back of the room. A panicked cleaner had come rushing out of the corridor housing the toilets. "There's a dead man! In the men's toilets!" he yelled. Then, he fainted.

"Ruby, it's your date. Eugene, wasn't it?" Sherlock stated calmly.

"What?" cried a startled Ruby. "It can't be!" Yet, in her heart of hearts, she knew it must be. He was an insufferable twat, but he didn't deserve to die. Nobody did. Sherlock grabbled John's hand. "Come along, Joh-_Joan_." He corrected himself. "This case just got interesting."

_**A/N:I hope you enjoyed this chapter. It was a lot of fun to write! The next chapter will be the last, hopefully, and then I am embarking on a very long project (details yet to be disclosed, because spoilers, sweeties). See you for the final chapter (up by Sunday at the latest). **_


	5. Chapter 5: A Kiss and a Solution

Chapter 5

A Kiss and a Solution

_**A/N: Here there will be JohnLock shipping. If you don't like it don't read. Enjoy!**_

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock._

"Let go of my hand, Sherlock." John said, trying to pull free of Sherlock's iron grip.

Sherlock didn't reply, but freed his hand, running down to the corridor housing the toilets. John followed him earnestly. When they got to the corridor, there was already a large crowd of people outside the toilets. Sherlock sighed. "John. I am going to have to kiss you."

"Wha-"John began but he was cut off when Sherlock leant forward and kissed him. It was soft, but sure. John felt strangely contented as Sherlock kissed him gently. _This is wrong! _his brain screamed. _I'm married!_ But other parts of his brain didn't want the kiss to end. Ever. It felt strangely right, and _good_. Eventually, the rational part of his brain won over and he pulled away. He looked into Sherlock's eyes, which were full ofdisappointment. That was certainly unexpected. Why would Sherlock be disappointed after their kiss? It was just for cover, right? John was completely and utterly confused. Sherlock turned towards the door leading to the toilet, where the crowd had thinned. _Dear god,_ John thought, _how long were we kissing? _And then a thought stuck him – _now everybody will assume we're gay! Even more than before!_ This realization made John turn towards Sherlock and tap him on the shoulder. Sherlock turned, and John punched Sherlock squarely in the face. Sherlock reeled from the strength of the punch, and looked bemusedly at John. "What was that for?"

"You. Complete. And. Utter. MORON!" John yelled.

"Look, John. If you didn't like it, we can discuss it later. Right now, we have a case to solve and you are going to destroy our cover even more." Sherlock spoke calmly, which soothed John slightly. He was still mad at him, but he would remain calm for the moment. However, Sherlock would have hell to pay once the case was over. Then, Sherlock added, "Anyway, you are dressed like a woman. Nobody will recognize you." John sighed, conceding mentally that he was right.

"Fine, just don't do that again. Mary might very well kill you."

Sherlock smiled slightly, and he and John walked over to the toilet.

The body of Eugene Falcon was slumped inside a cubicle, hugging the toilet like a drunk. The smell of vomit was overwhelming, and John gagged. "Yuck. Worse than when Harry has too much." he remarked. Sherlock pulled on some gloves from his pocket and went over to the body, examining it closely. The toilet was filled nearly to the brim with vomit. Sherlock wrinkled his nose distastefully, and then smelt it more closely. There was a hint of something strange in the air. He prised open Eugene's mouth, and another small stream of vomit trickled out. That was the cause of death, then- asphyxiation on own vomit. Not a pleasant way to go. Sherlock was absolutely sure that this had nothing to do with alcohol. The vomit held no trace of it, so what else could it be? _Think, Sherlock, think!_ Then, the answer came to him, in a flash_ – poison. _Obvious really. He needed to confirm this theory, so he straightened. "John, could you verify the cause of death, please?" he asked. Then he ran out of the room, leaving John alone with the corpse. John didn't mind; he was quite used to this sort of thing.

Meanwhile, Sherlock ran up to Ruby's table. Thankfully, Eugene's plate was still there. He stuck his finger in the unidentifiable, madly expensive mush (without even a glance at Ruby), and tasted a little. Yes, definitely a hint of poison to it. It didn't matter what sort of poison at present- but he was pretty sure that it was cyanide. Fortunately, he kept antidotes to petty much any poison back at Baker Street- just round the corner from the restaurant, thank god. "What was that for?" asked Ruby, confused and slightly in shock.

"He was poisoned." Sherlock said shortly. "and I need the antidote, now, otherwise I'll die too. It's at Baker Street. The bottle is labeled Cyanide Antidote, and then its full name, Hydroxocobalamin."

Ruby understood immediately. She leapt up and dashed out of the restaurant at high speed. Thank goodness that he had deduced that Ruby ran a lot in her spare time. She'd be back in under 10 minutes, of that he was sure. His mind returned to the pressing matter of the case. He settled into his mind palace quickly, trying to figure out who would have poisoned Eugene. The 'why' was obvious- the letter-writer had threated to kill all that Ruby loved; it stood to reason that potential lovers would be eliminated too. The poisoner would have to have had intimate access to the food – a cook, then. Must have been high ranking, to be entrusted with such an expensive dish. Sherlock had an intimate knowledge of the kitchen hierarchy, having had to go undercover as a chef during a case. High ranking, handling meat -ah! The sous-chef! Sherlock dashed outside, where he knew he would find everybody –he had noted that the restaurant was mostly evacuated. "Where is the sous-chef?" he cried. A man looked up. "That'd be me, sir." The man spoke with a slight Welsh lilt. Sherlock looked him up and down, deductions spiraling in his face:

_Experienced chef, amateur chemist, history of mental illness, obsessive-compulsive disorder, abusive. _

Yes, this was the culprit. "What is your name?" Sherlock demanded.

"Dillon Lywellan, sir." He said, confused. "Why'd you want to know?"

"Mr. Lywellan. I have reason to believe - ah, here she comes." Ruby was running down the street, holding her skirt with one hand, and a small bottle in the other.

"Sherlock, I've got it!" she cried, handing him the bottle. Sherlock gulped down a mouthful, relivedly.

"Thank you. Now, Ruby, do you know who this man is?"

Ruby turned and stared at Dillon Lywellan, with an expression like thunder. "You! You utter…!" Her voice cracked. "I ran away from you years ago. I thought our paths would never cross again. And now you kill my date?"

"He was an idiot." Sherlock muttered.

"Shut up." Ruby whispered. She looked over at Dillon. "Why? Why did you do it?" She asked sadly.

"I did it because I wanted you to feel what I felt. When you left me. I wanted you to love me again." He said, grinning manically.

"Yes, but killing? That's wrong." There were tears in Ruby's eyes as she said this.

John, during this exchange, had come outside looking for Sherlock. Spying him, he ran over. "Sherlock. What's happening?" he whispered.

"Hush." Sherlock whispered back. "We will find out the resolution to this case. And I don't want to miss anything!"

"You never miss anything." John muttered.

Ruby was still looking at Dillon, her sadness giving way to disgust. "You are a despicable person!"

"In fairness, I did get some help. From the consulting criminal, Moriarty. It would seem that you got some help too."

"Moriarty?" John breathed. Sherlock just looked surprised.

"You…" Ruby couldn't take it any more and let herself break down crying. John moved to comfort her. "I'll always have this hold over you. I'll always be able to make you break down." Dillon said with relish. Then, suddenly a young waiter came running from the kitchen back door with an empty soup pot. _What is he doing? _John wondered. The man ran up to Dillon and clonked him on the head firmly. Dillon's legs crumpled beneath him and he fell to the ground. Sherlock looked up at the young man.

"Thank you. He was getting on my nerves."

"My pleasure. I've hated the git since I came to work here. He's rude to everybody." The man sighed, and dropped the pot on the ground. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that."

Sherlock smirked as he looked the man up and down.

_Early 20's, a ginger cat, single, lives alone, vegetarian, works out a lot, no medical problems._

A thought came into Sherlock's head. He walked up to the man. "What's your name?"

"George Saunders." He answered.

"Come." Sherlock led George over to Ruby, who was still being comforted by John. "Ruby, this is George Saunders. He's going to stay with you for a while. I need to talk to John." George looked at Sherlock, surprised, but he didn't complain. John gently moved away from Ruby and let George move over to comfort her. "Shh, it's alright." George whispered. "It's okay…"

John and Sherlock waked away from the two of them, as police cars and an ambulance pulled up at the scene. DI Lestrade moved towards them, pushing though the crowds of diners and staff. "Sherlock, John, what happened here? And John, why the hell are you dressed like a woman?"

"Murder, Lestrade, what do you think?" Sherlock said sarcastically. "A man died of cyanide poisoning, choking to death on his own vomit. Those are the basic details. The culprit is passed out over there-" here Sherlock gestured towards Dillon on the ground "from a blow to the back of the head with a soup pot. Question him, and he'll confess to it. You should probably get reports from everybody now. John and I will come in and file ours tomorrow. Oh, and John is dressed like a woman to disguise his identity."

"Right. Of course." said Lestrade weakly. "And here I was hoping for a quiet evening in with my wife."

"I wouldn't bother, she's sleeping with her gym teacher." Sherlock added, earning himself an annoyed glance from John. Lestrade sighed, and went off to begin questioning everybody while they were still all there. John turned to Sherlock as he walked away. "When are you ever going to learn tact, Sherlock?" he asked tiredly. Sherlock smirked in response. "You should know by now, John, that I will never change."

John laughed.  
"I think you'll probably want to get back to Mary, now. She'll want to know what you've been up to."

"True enough." John agreed. Then he hesitated. "Sherlock…This is the first thing Moriarty's done since…you know."

"Yes."

"What do you think he'll do next?"

Sherlock looked serious. "I don't know. But," he added, "I do know that when he unveils his big plan, I'll be ready. I will always be ready. I beat him once before, I can do it again."

"Just don't die this time. Or get exiled." John said, half-jokingly.

"I can't promise anything. I am very unpredictable." Sherlock broke into a smile, a rare true one, and he and John laughed their way back to 221 Baker Street.

In a hotel room, Moriarty looked at the footage that had just been relayed to him. He smirked delightedly. "You'd better be ready, Sherlock Holmes. Because I am coming to get you."

The End! *jazz hands*

_**A/N: So here we are at the end of this story. But this is only the first act. The game isn't over yet. I'm sorry, but I HAD to adapt that quote. XD Anywhoosles, I am going be starting my new story after this, and it will be called 'Brown Eyes Hide Black Secrets'. I will not disclose the plot yet, because I'm mean. ;-) See you there, and thank you for reading! Please Review + Favorite! **_


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